


-Cancelled- Potter's Gift -Cancelled-

by ReverendKilljoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Yorkshire Dales, updated tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20454980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReverendKilljoy/pseuds/ReverendKilljoy
Summary: Update: The response to this story has been uniformly negative. Clearly what I have been trying to do here has not connected with an audience. This story has therefor been cancelled. Thank you to those who took time to share their thoughts.Further update: I have posted the missing half of the last chapter, bringing some sort of sense to that part of the story.





	1. Dickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags for Harry's family (Ginny, the children) apply to flashback scenes, and not the present action of the story itself.

This is a transformative work of original fiction, based in part on characters and situations created by J.K Rowling and used under the fair use provisions of international copyright law. There are also elements adapted from an original work by the author, reimagined for this piece. This work is rated EXPLICIT for later chapters, including incidents of mature themes, including sexuality, death, self harm, depression, and/or abuse. If you or someone you know is at risk of harming themselves, or of being harmed by another, please ask for help immediately. Allies are everywhere. We are not alone. Thank you.

Potter's Gift,  
by ReverendKilljoy

The air was heavy and quiet, filled with snow not quite ready to fall. The trees were motionless, black lace patterns against the sky. As the watery sun dipped below the horizon, the clouds grew dark and heavier. Out the window, there was nothing moving, the brittle grass frosted in the cold. Harry Potter, his green eyes dull and flat in the grey dusk light, lit the fire already laid in the hearth, and changed from threadbare jeans and a thick, cable knit jumper into an old flannel robe.

While he moved around the old house, changing his clothes and waiting for the fire to raise the room from freezing to merely bone-chilling, the skies reached a tipping point, and fat flakes of white began to stick to the windows. Rather than risk the thin blankets of his empty bed, Harry settled into his old recliner. A knitted blanket covered his legs, and an old volume of Muggle fiction was close at hand. Before he began reading, he spent a few minutes musing over the flames of the fire. The fire was natural, with no magic sustaining it, no floo network connected to the grate, just the ancient alchemy of wood and flame.

The holidays were always tough. He missed his children. He missed having a reason to be excited for snow on Christmas. He missed having a life that still held wonder.

“Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.”

Dickens had understood a life of wonder, and a life without.

Harry was startled by a loud report, like a muffled gunshot, from outside the window. He jumped, then relaxed. The snow must really be coming down now, as predicted. A weak limb on the old oak must have gathered too much weight and let go. He’d have to be careful, or he would wake up without— 

And just like that, the power flickered once, then went out. The fire was suddenly not a warm indulgence, but rather a vital need.

Harry closed off the bedrooms and bath, made sure all the windows were tight and the doors locked. He filled a few large pots with water and set them in the sink, and double-checked that there was still a good supply of dry wood inside. The snow had been coming down steady and hard for a good few hours by the time he sank back into his chair. It was late, and the warmth of fire and blanket after the cold of the house was intoxicating. He dozed off, he supposed, for something more than a half an hour. He woke with a start, his hand reaching for his pocket before just as suddenly stopping. He listened, reaching out with his senses for something out of place.

At first, he thought another branch popping or snow sliding off the roof might have woken him, but then he heard something different, something odd. It was a shuffling, thudding sound, very soft. He stood, moving away a bit from the crackling fire. The noise had stopped. That’s when he heard something else. A thin wailing, like a cat in distress. It was coming from the back door. He hesitated, not wanting to open the door to check, to let the winter in, to let his cherished warmth out. Then he heard it again, trailing off, right at the base of the door. 

Maybe it was the Dickens, and the thought of spirits, but suddenly he had to see for himself, and despite his doubts, he opened the door, just enough to peer into the darkness into the neglected back garden. Something heavy pushed the door wide, and fell with a wet thud across his threshold. His home wards should have stopped anything from breaching his home, but those magics were neglected long ago.

It was a boy, wearing a black and white striped hoodie, far too light for this weather and soaked through. Unmelted snow covered his hood and shoulders, and a trail of muddy, partially snow-covered footsteps led off the porch and towards the road across the pasture behind his property. After a moment of hesitation, Harry grabbed a wrist in each hand, and pulled the lad inside. He got the door closed, and by a combination of main force and careful leverage he lifted the soaking, freezing youth to the recliner by the fire.

Harry started brushing slushy snow off the striped hoodie and ripped black denim jeans. Another thin, crying sound came from under the hood, and he put his hands on the lad’s shoulders. 

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re going to be just fine. I promise—“

The hood fell back, and a long shock of wet, black-dyed hair tumbled down. A high, fair forehead, eyes closed but lined in kohl smudged by the snow into half-moons of shadow, and lips, pale and blue with cold but utterly perfect in shape and proportion, and finally a fluttering pulse visible in the pale hollow of a perfect throat.

“He” was a woman, a girl, and she was young and fey and delightful, assuming she didn’t freeze to death.

Harry tried to remember what to do for someone with hypothermia, which is what he hoped was wrong with her. He hoped it was only the cold, because if it was drugs or illness or gunshot, or anything else, there was no hope. This close to the edge of nowhere, a power outage almost always meant owls being grounded as well. He had his fire, but no floo network connected for service.

Fortunately, Harry had once spent a very long, dangerous time, cut off from communication and struggling in the cold, and he had not forgotten. It started to come back to him. Warm dry blankets, no hot water or direct heat. Uncover the face, cover the head, warm drinks. No rubbing or quick movements to prevent tissue damage or cardiac arrest.

He started to peel the sodden hoodie off, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Hello,” he said softly. “Pardon the cliché, but I need to get you out of these wet things. Can you help me help you?”

Her eyes looked him up and down unsteadily, then rolled back in her head. After just a moment, she looked at him again, with a peaceful smile, and whispered to him, just audible above the crackling fire and his pounding pulse.

“Thank you.”

She was asleep, or passed out, not that the difference mattered. Harry inefficiently struggled to get the hoodie off. Underneath was a black cotton shirt with a scoop neck and elbow-length sleeves. It was thin, and soaked to boot, so he said a quick apology under his breath for what he was about to do. He tried to slide the shirt and hoodie off together quickly while averting his eyes, but the wet cloth clung to her cold flesh and to her hair, which was surprisingly long and wet enough to wring out like a dishcloth.

Worse, when he finally wrestled the hoodie and shirt up under her arms, the front caught and would not come up. Sliding his hand around while supporting her body from the side, he found that the obstruction holding up progress was her breasts. She was apparently older than he had originally thought, though still young, small and slightly built. He found a smallish, but firm and very feminine breast filling the palm of his hand. Her nipple was glass-etchingly hard with the cold, and he blushed a deep crimson. For the first time in many months, he briefly thought of Ginny Weasley without regret. Doing his best to keep his eyes averted, he finally got her stripped to the waist. 

Harry was tempted to leave her in her jeans, which though soaked through were so torn and “artistically” ripped as to be threads, but it was clear they were still holding enough water against her skin to undo any serious effort at warming her up. Besides, this whole process was taking too long. She was so cold she was not even shivering, just lying in the chair. He moved into overdrive, eschewing politeness and dignity for speed.

He reclined the chair, threw a blanket over her torso, and unbuttoned her jeans. As they came open, he was only slightly surprised that she appeared to be bare underneath. He actually paused. What was he getting himself into? He shook his head and scolded himself. What business of his was it what this kid, this young lady, he guessed, wore? It was his job to keep her alive and safe until he could get her some real help.

His job? What the hell? Harry paused again, uncertain, blanket in his hand, and took a second to really think about what he was doing. Here was a kid, dangerously cold and in who knows what trouble sitting in front of him. He chided himself, angry that he was thinking philosophy when time mattered. He would face his ethical dilemmas later. The jeans came off along with canvas trainers and mismatched ankle socks. He moved to wrap another blanket over her chilled legs and dry her feet, and that’s when he saw them.

Her thighs, from just above the knee to the crease at her hip, were a rough corrugated road of fine scars. None were new, as far as he could see, but there was a continuum of age from white, raised scars to more fresh, deep pink. He wrapped her, carefully, lifting her feet and rolling them up as the blanket encased her like a pastie. He thought about the long sleeves on her shirt, and checked under the other blanket. Yes, scars on both arms, dozens of cuts both short and long, but all stopping at the elbow to be covered by her shirt. The legs cut on top and on the inner thigh, the jeans carefully ripped down the sides. Despite the self-harm, she must have been careful and disciplined to hide these marks.

He went to the kitchen and tried to figure out how to heat something for her to drink, while she lay in the recliner by the fire. As if defying the cheerful predictions of the holiday meteorologists earlier in the day, the night was getting noticeably colder every hour. He thought about the bottle of fire-whiskey he kept for visitors, barely touched over the last three years. No, alcohol might feel warming, but he knew it was a depressant, and not a good idea. He grabbed a pint of milk that he had bought for tea, and gave it a sniff. It would do.

Heating the milk turned out to be simple. A tin cup, sat on the warm hearth, quickly brought a small serving to body temperature, or a bit above. He turned to his young guest, and said aloud, “I hope you’re not lactose intolerant. That would be bloody perfect.”

She made no response, and when he touched her face, she was cold and still. 

His heart began to race, and the room faded to the grey fog of tunnel vision, his pulse thundering in his ears the only sound. He set down the milk, nearly knocking it over in his haste. He unwrapped her arm from the blankets, but in his agitation he felt no pulse on her pale, delicate wrist. He stood, there, her hand in his, paralyzed with fear and indecision, for a what seemed like hours but was probably less than a minute. He took a deep breath at last, and snapped somewhat back to himself, as if emerging from water into the cold air.

Harry peeled the blankets from her body as he knelt next to the chair. Her white throat was revealed, her delicate collar bones visible in stark relief, her compact bosom and dusky nipples, a single mole like an accent mark on the gentle slope of her right breast. He ignored the beautiful proportions of her, and placed his ear to her chest. At first, he held his breath, but that made his own heart race faster and more loudly in his ears. He carefully let out his breath and softly, faintly, he heard her heart beating. She lived.

Harry sighed heavily with relief, and his warm breath raised goosebumps across her chest. He lifted his head to cover her again, and was startled by her hand moving to his unruly hair. Weak as a kitten, she tried to push his face back to her body. Giving in to his own exhaustion and worry, Harry allowed her to guide him back to her heart, and pulled the blankets closer around them, covering her as best he could while keeping his bristly cheek flush to her chilled skin. Despite his awkward, kneeling pose next to the recliner, Harry drifted into a distracted reverie, almost a trance. His world was only her body against his cheek, her hand on the back of his neck, her heart beating with his. His eyes closed, just for a moment, just a quick rest…


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's guest wakes, as does Harry. This chapter contains explicit content.

Harry awoke with a start, confused. His knees were aching and his feet were cold. He started to sit up, and realized he had fallen asleep, face pressed to her chest, arms around her, kneeling over the arm of the recliner. He hastily covered her up, noting that her skin was somewhat less pale than before, and she stirred as his hands drew the covers over her.

Her eyes opened, slowly, and she looked at Harry through dusky lashes. Her makeup had turned into dark, bruise-like shadows around each eye. Her lashed were long and thick, her eyes themselves a warm brown, with flecks of gold around the edges and big, luminous pupils that reflected the firelight. She worked her mouth as though to speak, but her brows crinkled when no sound came out.

“Slow, now,” Harry advised softly. “I pulled you out of the snow and ice at my back door. You were soaked and freezing.”

“Who are you?” She forced the words out through cracked lips, her voice as dry and fragile as could be. “Where is this?”

“You’re in my house, just a bit outside Hawes. My name, my name is Harry.” His mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile, as it did every time he met someone who didn’t know him, or think that they knew him.

She closed her eyes, and for a long while Harry thought she had fallen asleep again. Eyes still closed, she said softly, more breathily, “I’m cold.”

Harry struggled stiffly to his feet, the abused muscles in his thighs and calves burning as he straightened up. He noticed the fire had died down somewhat, and turned to add more fuel.

Her eyes flew open and her hand flew out, landing on his wrist. The blanket fell to her side, revealing her naked beauty. Harry looked away, running his other hand through the graying, wild hair that fell into his face, nervous and awkward at her touch.

“Don’t leave,” she breathed. It was heartbreaking, arousing, desperate. He wanted to hold her, cherish her, banish the cold and the dark and be her protector. Old habits. He wanted to be a better version of himself when he heard her voice and felt her cool fingers circling his wrist.

“I’m just stoking up the fire.” His voice sounded harsh and loud in his own ears. He hurried his words. “Your clothes were soaked. I– I laid them out over here, but I doubt they’re dry. The power is out and…” 

She pulled again at his wrist, and her other hand joined the first on his arm. The recliner lowered at the foot as she sat up. Her feet, still wrapped in layers of blankets, barely touched the floor. 

“You’re warm,” she said simply. “Come here.”

Harry turned, and she raised her arms to him. Trying to keep his eyes on hers, he relented, taking her in his arms. She leaned into him, and pressed her body to his, with her face against his chest in a reversal of their previous positions. The blankets began to slide from her body, and trying to keep them from falling, Harry pulled her closer, his feet tangling with the blankets. His eyes went wide as they both began to fall, clutching one another. Harry managed to twist his wiry frame, falling on his side, and hitting the arm of the chair with his hip. He had to laugh at himself, or else he might have cried.

As he sat, holding her above him while he settled into the chair, she also laughed. Her laughter was quiet but deep, a throaty chuckle that surprised him.

“I’m so sorry!” Blankets were wrapped partly around them, but as he held her, his hands gripping her arms below each shoulder, she was exposed from nose to navel and beyond. “I didn’t mean– I was just– Oh, bugger.” He flinched away, frustrated.

She twisted, turning in his arms. One of his hands slid across her breasts, the other wrapped around her soft belly. She wound up, essentially nude, on his lap and facing the fire. She pulled blankets tightly down over them both, and pulled Harry’s arms closer around her. He could feel her bottom screwing down into his lap, and then suddenly she leaned hard back against him. The footrest went up, the recliner went back, and she was lying on him, his chin on her shoulder, his lips at her ear, and his arms wrapping around her body. She was so very small, and still cool, though his flesh burned where they touched.

“Warmer,” she sighed, and squeezed her arms on his, hugging herself tighter.

Her hair smelled of apples, and the blood roared in his ears as she settled herself. She was soon relaxed, buzzing slightly with sleep. Harry, sharing his warmth and his fire and his heartbeat with her, fell to sleep more fitfully. He could feel every scar on her upper arms under his fingertips.

He woke, slowly, from decade-old dreams of flying. He was alone in his chair, but no longer reclining. The fire was almost dead, and watery light from the front windows dimly lit the room with an unreal aura. His thighs trembled, and his breath caught, sharp and fast. The room coming more into focus, he looked down.

There was a dark mass of hair, spread over his lap, and pale shoulders, and warm wet bliss around his naked hardness. He shuddered, on the verge of explosion, and pushed her away in shock and anger. Her lips released him with a lurid pop and she looked at him in confusion, a string of saliva connecting her to him, from her full lower lip to the tip of his cock. And at that moment, that moment of shame and confusion and anger, he came.

It had been so long. Harry gasped, and his bobbing cock fired wildly with each heartbeat, splashing up to his lean chest, then against her cheek, and over his pushed-down briefs. Time seemed to stand still, and the strand of saliva stretched, broke. He dragged a breath into his shuddering body, blinking rapidly at what he had done, what she had done. 

Harry felt betrayed. Betrayed by her, for assuming, for presuming to… Betrayed by his body, for finding such complete release after being so long denied. Betrayed by his own heart, for pounding with passion and desire for her, this unnamed, unknown, unknowable spirit.

Before he could speak, he watched a drop of spunk slide down her cheek, and a tear rolled down after it. She looked at Harry in pain and anger and hurt, and then she clambered to her feet and fled the room. He realized his glasses had been set aside as she ran, not just out of focus but also out of the room. He reached a trembling hand to the table, and slid his glasses into place. The room came into focus, but only the room.

In the cold light of a cold morning, Harry couldn’t decide if he was a hero, a victim, or a villain. He knew he was a failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawes is a lovely village in the Yorkshire Dales, but to the best of my knowledge, it is not home to a large wizarding community.


	3. I Don't Get You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She speaks.
> 
> A short chapter in which Harry and his guest share a misunderstanding.

Harry found her in the boys’ bare old room, sitting in the gloom on an unmade bed. Her blanket was thrown over her shoulders, but she was making no effort at modesty. She peered at Harry as he came through the door, moving slowly with his hands up, palms facing her.

“I don’t know where I am.” Her voice was so much softer than he expected, small in the darkness in a way that had little to do with her size. “I couldn’t find clothes.”

“I’ll get you clothes,” Harry said, matching her soft tones. He stopped just beyond arm's’ length. “I wanted to tell you, about what happened out there, that I–”

“–Forget it.”

“No, really, sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You didn’t have to. I was just surprised.”

She shrugged, sighed.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “For the fire, the blankets, and everything.”

Harry knelt, settling to look slightly up at her from his knees by the bed.

“But you didn’t have to,” he urged again. “You never have to, to do that, for me.”

“You bent?” She wasn’t hostile, just curious. “It’s okay if you are. Queer, you know, it’s not a thing.”

“No, that’s not it. I mean, you never have to do something like that for me, just because I helped you. You don’t owe me anything. No one owes me anything.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked him up and down.

“So, what do you want? I don’t have any money left. I think I maybe had a packet of Molly or two, but they must be ruined. They were just loose in my pocket.”

“I don’t want your drugs,” Harry said, somewhat too squarely. “I’d appreciate you not getting high while you’re here. Speaking of which, you’re welcome to stay, at least until you have something to eat and some dry clothes, dry shoes. I might have one of my girl’s old jackets around somewhere that would fit you.”

She swallowed, licked her lips nervously, which sent a rippling frisson of electricity down his spine from the base of his skull. He could still see, glistening in the grey dawn, the twin tracks of her tears, and just a touch of his ejaculate trailing down her right cheek.

“Well, I am hungry, I guess. And pretty cold still.” She shrugged the blanket off her shoulders, and leaned back on the bed, spreading her knees apart and exposing herself fully to him.

“You can do me here, if you want, first,” she said mechanically. “Better than that manky old chair.” She closed her eyes and managed to look bored.

Harry leaped awkwardly to his feet, and pulled her back to a sitting position, trying to both wrap her in the blanket and avoid touching her anywhere and therefore failing at both.

“Please, stop! I meant it.” Harry’s voice was wavering, breaking. He had trouble seeing clearly as unshed tears burned in his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything, I swear. Just come in the other room, let me find you some clothes, and get you cleaned up. Okay?”

She shrugged again, and the blanket slipped off as she stood and walked, nude and glorious as any nymph in the moonlight, back towards the main room. She paused in the doorway, looking back over one silver shoulder, raven hair tumbling down her back, and those warm brown eyes caught the firelight from down the hall and burned into Harry.

“You’re funny. I don’t get you.”

And then she was gone, and he heard the rustling of blankets, then the tired springs of the recliner as it unfolded underneath her negligible weight.

Harry was lost, breathless, and achingly, surprisingly hard again. He knew, at that exact moment, that he was damned. He picked the blanket up off the floor, and moved towards the other room, and the warm light from the dying fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys, his girl. Yes, this is meant to be at least partially compliant with the coda to the canon novels. Changes will be made clear as the story warrants. Please comment, criticise, question, or plead. Thank you. -Killjoy


	4. Rabbity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just once, can’t someone just like me? I promise I won’t do anything– I won’t– I won’t make you mad. I won’t… Can’t you just love me?"

She was in the chair, covered with a blanket, staring at the flickering remains of the fire.  
  
Unsure of what to say, Harry went to the fireplace and added a few medium-sized sticks of wood. He really wanted to get it roaring, but he worried if he put too much fuel on at once it would smolder instead of burning. She watched him, her eyes wide and curious, as he tended the grate. When he could no longer realistically claim to be rebuilding the fire, Harry turned back to her and spoke, softly.

“Can we start over? I’d like to.”   
  
She continued to watch him without a reply.

“My name is Harry, and you crawled up to my house. We’re in Hawes, about 2 miles from the Green Dragon Inn. It’s maybe 7:00 or so, Christmas morning. Nearly dawn. I have fire and food, but no running water, no phone. Your hoodie is nearly dry, but the rest of your clothes are still pretty bad. You, uh, you’ve seen the house. There’s a cellar, but it’s probably hard frozen down there now. The attic is draughty and not fit for much.”

She nodded but maddeningly stayed quiet.

“And you are?” Harry hoped to start filling in the gaps.

“So you’re alone out here?” Her voice was soft, low. It made him lean towards her, closer than he would have preferred. He wondered if that was her intention.

“This is my house, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cool.” She looked at the side table, the stack of books and papers and old post.

“I’m in your chair again,” she said, sitting up. The blanket fell from her shoulders, but she remained covered as Harry motioned for her to stay seated. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

Harry waved off her concerns. He tried again. “So, can I at least know your name?”

“Aren’t you cold?” She wouldn’t stick to the script. “That robe? Flannel looks cuddly, but you must be cold.”

“I guess I am cuddly. Cold. I guess I’m cold.” She chuckled at his stammering response.

She extended one slender arm, held the blanket up, and he saw her pale flesh, from chin to toes. Harry gasped, overwhelmed. Not just by her sweetly swelling breasts with nipples the color of wine, not just the brown curls at her sex that proved the lie of her dyed black hair, but her collarbones, delicate against the flush of her shoulders, her navel, winking like an oyster with her movements, her scarred thighs, faded paler somehow now that she had some color back. Even the glossy black polish chipped somewhat off her toenails. She was breathtaking.

“You can cuddle in here if you want.” This wasn’t the dead-eyed offer of sex she had made in the other room. Her eyes were warm, her mouth curved into a slight smile, her full lips twisting in enjoyment at his shock and alarm.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Harry’s voice came out harsher than he liked, but he was growing angry, frustrated with this game that he had never asked to play. He’d like to say that he looked away, but he could not. Almost heroically, Harry had raised his eyes to her face, though he found himself looking at her lips rather than into her eyes despite his best efforts. He had not had much human interaction in a long time.

She shrugged, which caused a fascinating series of secondary movements which Harry ignored. Her smile faded, which broke his heart and pulled a veil before the morning light starting to creep across the wall from the window.

“You warmed me up, you let me in. You took care of me.” She looked down. “I figured maybe you liked me.”

“Listen… you. I do like you, I guess, but I don’t know you. Don’t you think I need to know who you are before I can like you?” He knelt again, so she did not have to keep looking up at him. He reached over and gently covered her lap with the blanket, but her top remained uncovered. He was afraid to reach towards her again, afraid of his actions, not hers. He was stricken to note that though her smile returned, it never reached her eyes. She had the saddest smile he had ever seen, even after the War.

“Do you have to know me?” Her voice broke, and she sucked in a trembling breath and continued. “Can’t you just like me, and I can like you, and it doesn’t matter who or how or why? Just once, can’t someone just like me? I promise I won’t do anything– I won’t– I won’t make you mad. I won’t… Can’t you just love me?”

The tears were dripping off her nose, which Harry noticed had been pierced at some point, but now only the hurtful little mark remained. Between the cold and the tears, her nose was running, her lips wet and trembling. Without conscious thought, he swiped a sleeve across her face and pulled her into his arms.

“Oh, little Rabbity,” Harry sighed as she buried her head against his chest, “Of course, of course. I’m here.”

They talked, words tumbling out, talking over each other, everything and nothing. Eventually, her breathing slowed and steadied, and she pulled back to look up at him.

“Can I call you H?” she asked in her abrupt way. Harry had always hated nicknames and insisted on Potter, or Harry.

“Of course you can,” Harry brushed the last tears off her cheek with his thumb. “But what do I call you, little Rabbity?”

She smiled and her face lit up, and she took one of his hands in both hers and brushed her lips across his thumb. Her lashes, dark and long even without the heavy makeup which was barely visible right ruin now, were sparkling with tears like dew.

“Oh, yes, please. I’d like that. ‘Rabbity.’ You will be H, and I will be your Little Rabbity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On "Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump"
> 
> At some point, Muggle-raised Harry must have encountered the classic children's tales of Babbity Rabbity.


	5. Flashback- A Muggle Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Updated- see end notes]
> 
> Fourteen years earlier, the Potters take their first "Muggle Holiday" in the Hawes cottage.
> 
> “It was your idea to give the children a ‘Muggle holiday,’ remember? Wand away, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” Ginny’s voice was clear over the spattering rain outside. “Harry, come gather the boys, please.”

Having sent trunks and cases floating to their respective rooms with a few flicks of his wand, Harry indulgently spread his arms, gathering the two young boys into a sweeping embrace. Despite his modest stature and somewhat lean appearance, Harry was easily strong enough to match the young boys, and he hefted the two lads with ease, slinging James over one shoulder and Albus under the opposite arm.

“I found two trolls, but no little boys,” he growled. He wrestled them through the doorway, where he saw Ginny bouncing the toddler, little Lily, on her hip while trying to get the shopping sorted in the small kitchen. “Let us help,” he offered, setting down the boys and drawing his wand with practiced ease.

“Now, none of that,” she warned, nodding pointedly toward his wand. “It was your idea to give the children a ‘Muggle holiday,’ remember? Wand away, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, Mrs. Potter,” he sighed. “Come on, you trolls, time to help mum put up the shopping.”

Still laughing, the boys jumped to the task. James, older and more capable, was nevertheless of little help, as his role seemed to consist of emptying each bag onto the counter, losing interest, and wandering about to explore the cottage. Albus, only two years older than Lily but already with a seriousness beyond his years, began sorting the flour, eggs, milk, and other staples into some categories of his own devising on the round kitchen table, chewing his lower lip distractedly and pushing his unruly hair back off of his forehead in unconscious imitation of his father.

With Albus on sorting detail, Harry soon sorted and stowed the shopping. Seeing how both Ginny and little Lily were yawning, he said softly to his wife, “Why not take Lily for a little lie-down? I’ll take the boys for a walk across the pasture out back. That should burn up some energy for James, and give Albus plenty to chat about, what do you say?”

By the time Harry and his sons returned, rose-cheeked, mud-splashed and grinning, the girls were awake, Lily at the table with a cup of juice and Ginny just laying out the tea. The first afternoon in “The Muggle Cottage” had been an unqualified success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of this flashback, Lily is very nearly three years old, making Albus and James five and seven, respectively. 
> 
> The village of Hawes is located in the Yorkshire Dales, and the cottage lies a few miles from the Green Dragon, an inn which has catered to discrete witches and wizards for generations. The cottage lies on land which has historically belonged to the Blacks, but which has not had any wizard residents since before the Second Goblin War.
> 
> UPDATE: Merlin, this chapter was a mess. Tense changes, typos, unclear pronouns... I think it's fixed now, but please point out anything I have missed. I get sloppy posting between classes (I am a school teacher when not writing). Thank you for your patience, and sorry about the poor quality of the initial post.


	6. Christmas Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She looked up coyly, but her look changed to one of fear as she saw him, saw his face."
> 
> After a moment of shared comfort, a secret comes to light that threatens everything for Harry and little Rabbity.

Around noon, the power came back on. Harry didn’t even notice at first, but then he heard the deep rumbling of the central heat, struggling to warm the cottage. He poked his head out of the blankets, wrestling his glasses into place, looking for… he guessed he looking for his little Rabbity. The blankets next to him were cold. He decided not to think about this all too closely.

Harry pulled on his trousers, and let the cold floor steal the warmth from his feet as he checked the bathroom and bedrooms. She was gone. Her jeans and hoodie were still there, but she was gone, and so were his good boots and his jacket. Bugger. Harry looked out the front window, but the snow was unbroken and unblemished, the road covered all the way to the curve down by old Ryan’s farm.

He put on slippers, not wasting time to search for shoes, and threw a heavy denim work shirt on, the sparse, wiry, white and black hairs of his chest poking through the button holes. He went to the back garden.

He found her on the back path, kicking at the calf-high snow with his boots, looking for something. He was angry, watching the powder turning to slush, sliding into his boots with each kick of her small feet. But more, he was relieved. So long had Harry been alone, a caretaker but not a resident in his own cottage, he was surprised to find himself not alone on this Christmas Day. For a few moments, he had been very nearly happy.

She was looking for something, but if it was out there, it was long since soaked and frozen. He talked her into coming in, at last, and she went to wash herself. As Harry tried in vain to empty his boots, clapping them against the edge of the porch, he noticed something. Near the threshold to the door, there was a shadow under the snow. About 10” long, narrow and graceful. Harry stared at it, holding a powdery handful of snow he swept clear to be sure. It was a wand, and not his.

Harry’s heart beat louder, and a red haze blurred at the edges of his vision. He turned, slippered feet sliding on the packed snow by the door. Once inside, he flung the door closed and marched into the bathroom, throwing the door open as she hastily pulled his shirt over her nude body. She looked up coyly, but her look changed to one of fear as she saw him, saw his face. He raced his eyes over her, from crown to toe and back, searching for something.

He tasted bitter, metallic heat in his mouth. Without a word, Harry took her in his hands, unbending and hard against her soft arms. He looked at her arms, her legs, her thighs pale and thin below the hem of the shirt. She began to struggle, but he heard nothing, just the roar of blood and pound of his pulse.

Harry grabbed the collar of the shirt, and jerked it down. It held for a moment then tore away. She screamed, tried to pull away, but one of his hands easily held both her wrists, and he ran the other hand over her arms, her shoulders, roughly feeling the skin he had tenderly touched earlier.

“Where is it?” Harry shouted at her, a fleck of his saliva landing on her chin. “Where is it, damnit?”

“Let me go, let me go!” She thrashed and fought, hissing and biting at him. He lifted her wrists higher, her heels came off the floor and she twisted on her toes. Her eyes were growing wider with panic, but Harry ignored her face. Under one of her raised arms, he saw it, the size of a sickle coin. Under the arm, to hide it from him, to lie to him. To hurt him. The little mark, flushed skin dark around the shining white mark, skin flushed with blood from her racing heart. A triangle, around a circle, bisected. The mark of the Hallows.

Harry let her go, and she fell, her knees striking the tile loudly, painfully. The copper taste was still in his mouth, and he spat, past her, into the commode. He turned and left her without a word, and stood with his hands on his hips, looking out the front window over the snow. He heard her come in, quiet, hesitant. He did not turn.

“I know where it is– where your wand is,” Harry said with clenched jaw. “Outside. By the door. Get out. Take it with you. Keep it, use it, throw it away, I don’t care. I want it gone, and I want you gone. Get. Out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the previous flashback, I am moving past the pre-planned portions of this fic, and heading into uncharted territory.
> 
> Please, if this has moved you in any way, comment and share your thoughts. Sometimes my writing is a little opaque, and I need a certain amount of feedback to dial in my prose. I appreciate all comments, negative or no.
> 
> Best, Killjoy


	7. Cold and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abandoned, Rabbity is in the snow, drawn into darkness.
> 
> "The wind hit her, trying to punish her, to hurt her, but it was nothing on the job she could do on herself."

She walked down the road, away from H’s cottage, wrapped in a coat he had insisted she take. It was dusty and too long, but it was warm, and had a hood which kept wind and weather out of her hair, more or less. It covered her to mid-thigh, which was good. The fat, jolly snowflakes from earlier had changed to a wind-driven spray of icy needles that burned where they hit her face or found the tears in the legs of her jeans. She had planned on wearing her old striped hoodie, but the coat had been so warm, she had opted to wrap the hoodie in a ball around her uncovered hands. The wind and its pins of ice could not reach her hands now. It hardly hurt at all as she walked.

It didn’t hurt enough, really. She found herself hiking the coat up in the front as she leaned into the icy wind, feeling every needle, feeling the bite and sting, almost like—

She stopped. She turned out of the wind and looked down, really looked and tried to see herself. The coat was pulled up nearly to her waist, and the hoodie was scrunched down in a tight ball around her hands, baring her exposed wrists. They had passed the white-blue of cold and were starting to burn red from the wind and driving particles of snow. She closed her eyes and felt her breath, ragged and uncertain. Out. In. Hold it. Out. Each breath pulled the material of her shirt across her nipples, tight and sensitive in the cold. She smoothed the long coat back down over her thighs, buried her hands and arms in the rolled up hoodie. She lowered her head, and turned back into the wind. She looked at the rutted track in the snow she had been following. Someone had driven a tractor down this road to the farm on the corner. Squinting into the white and the wind, she could make out the place where the tracks turned in before the corner. The tracks were new. Someone must have driven by while H was getting her dressed and ordering her out.

She knew she’d fucked up, again, knew she’d been stupid. She was surprised at how strongly he had reacted, though. She couldn’t take another step. She just stood there, the wind in her face and on her shins, buried in a warm coat that must have belonged to his sons. The wind hit her, trying to punish her, to hurt her, but it was nothing on the job she could do on herself. Fuck you, Mother Nature. Amateur. For the second time in two days, someone she’d cared about had put her out in the cold to fend or freeze, but this was the one that really scared her. 

She felt her knees folding, and she slipped into an awkward crouch, the muddy ice under the snow grinding into her knees, and it was almost a relief when she slowly toppled over on her side, her left shoulder cushioned by the snow displaced by the tractor-wheels’ slushy wake. Last time, it had been dark and she had followed the dim light ahead of her, which had turned out to be H’s back garden light. She’d crawled for what had felt like endless hours. This time, everything was light, and white, and she had nothing to follow. She let herself go and waited.

As her body dropped away, she rose, a creature of light. No cold, no pain, and no fear. She felt bright and white and clear.

Then, with a cry and a crash, she was back. Not in her body lying in the snow, but back in her body, in her bed, back in her mother’s house, the house that had been her house. The house that had been her father’s house. And the light faded to darkness, wrapping around her, smothering her. 

“Shhhh.” The breath, hot, stinking of cheap smokes and expensive whiskey, so close. 

She could not move, or speak, just as it had been then. Just as it always was when her eyes closed and she wasn’t drunk enough, high enough, or exhausted enough.

His hands, high on her thighs, pushing her knees apart. His fat cock inside her, dry, painful, humiliating. Powerless.

“Shhhh. Yes, oh yes.”

Her mind sank into the darkness that lived inside her.


	8. Flashback- Aurors and Robbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, you! You’re under arrest, and you’ll do an apple in the bin for this, I promise you.”
> 
> With Lily almost ready for Hogwarts, the Potters enjoy what might be their last 'Muggle Holiday.'

Sitting on a wooden bench, Harry watched the boys, playing a complicated game over and around the pasture behind the cottage. James raced to the stile over the fence, then stopped, hand extended to stop Albus, who was running along the other side of the fence.

“Stop! This is the aurors. Give up!” James, all of fourteen now, found his voice warbling between soprano and inconstant tenor.

“James,” Albus called in exasperation, hands going to his waist as he skidded to a stop, leaning in to scold his older brother, “It’s not the _aurors_. For Muggles you say ‘This is the police! No Muggle says ‘_aurors_.’ You have to play properly.”

James sighed. “This is the police, you fiend! You’re under arrest. It’s Azkaban for you.”

Albus shook his head, and took a seat on the step of the stile.

“Seriously? Azkaban?”

“Bugger,” said James, sitting on the opposite side of the stile, peering at his brother through the fence. “You’ve read all those Muggle crime stories. What should I say?”

Albus jumped up, pointing his finger at his brother like a pistol.

“Alright, you! You’re under arrest, and you’ll do an apple in the bin for this, I promise you.”

“Father,” Lily said softly, startling Harry who had not heard her come up. “The boys are just so silly, it shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Quite right, love.” He laughed, and called the boys over with a wave. “Boys, make sure the breakfast dishes are sorted, then your mother and I are taking you all into Shipton for the cinema.”

“Movies!” James shouted, clambering over the fence.

“_Films_,” Albus corrected him absently, racing towards the cottage.

All three of the children had developed a love for Muggle cinema, and with Lily getting ready to join the boys at Hogwarts in September, who knew when they might go together again. Ginny and Harry were hanging on to every moment on what might turn out to be their last “Muggle Holiday” as a family at the Hawes cottage.

A short while later, the Potter family piled into a nondescript old Volvo, which Ginny drove much the same way shew flew a broomstick, that is, with enthusiasm and energy rather than comfort. As they whipped into the turn past the old Ryan farm at the end of the lane, a stooped figure stepped out into the road near their gate, as if from nowhere.

The hooded stranger watched, leaning on a stick, as the car disappeared around the bend, and then without care for who might now be watching, disapparated with a muffled pop. A startled crow took flight, winging low and fast across the fields towards a small copse of oaks in the middle distance. As the bird’s cries faded, silence retuned to the otherwise peaceful scene once more.


	9. Christmas Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'I need you,' she said, surprised that it was true."
> 
> Dying, or not dying, or la petite mort.
> 
> Warning: another explicit sex chapter.

Her head hurt, and she was so cold, cold in her bones. Snow up her nose cold, ice in her hair cold. She thought she was back on the road, behind the pasture, back where TC had thrown her from his car into the slush and muck. He hadn’t said anything, just slid the car around the curve and shoved her hard in the side. The door popped open, she guessed he’d already hit the latch without her noticing. One minute the heater was blasting in her face, making her so hot she was drowsy, sweaty, her heavy coat thrown in the back seat. She’d had three snorts of whisky and it was a chore to stay awake. Then her head hit the ground, gravel tore up her jeans, mud and melted snow were down her top, and her mouth was filled with blood and slush.

TC’s Mini sped away, the street-racing tires sliding back and forth as he hit the curve. His tail lights were gone in two blinks. He had not braked, not slowed. Her boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen. He took more care throwing away his trash from the chippie. She wondered if she was dying.

In fact, she wondered if she was dead. Maybe she had died, there in the snow, and her life was rewinding to show her all the terrible details again as a punishment from God, or maybe the Devil, or her mother. Maybe she was freezing right now, and she hallucinated the whole thing with H and his cottage and the warm blanket. Maybe she was punishing herself. “I’m really good at that,” she thought, “And I have the scars to show it."

“I don’t want to die alone.” 

She thought her voice was in her head, but perhaps it wasn’t. Suddenly, the bright white lifted, a cool towel which had traded its warmth for her chill. She could see the ceiling, and realized she was back on the pallet of quilts in H’s cottage. Every blanket he had must have been laid over her, and he was lifting the towel from her face. He looked down on her, his face still puffy and mottled from his rage and tears, but with a thin smile.

“Everyone dies alone, in the end,” he said. “I know I did.”

“You came and got me.” Her voice sounded dull and far away, but it was hers. She lived.

“Of course I did. I was angry. But I’ve been so angry, for so very long, Rabbity. I’m pretty good at it now. And I didn’t want you to go.”

She tried to sit up, but her bones were very heavy and there were so many blankets. Instead, he took the edge of the blankets and lifted them. His eyebrows asked the question.

“Yes, please,” she said meekly. She was not meek. She really was not. But at this moment he was warm and strong and sad and he wasn’t putting up with her shit, and she wanted him very badly.

As he slid under the covers, his flesh was hot against her. His legs were brushed with downy curls, the hair sticking up from the cold. His cock touched her belly and her hip, but he didn’t try to grind on her, which pleased her. In a moment of wriggling, and shimmying, he was lying next to her, her arm was over his hip, her face buried in the salt and pepper spray of hair of his chest. She could feel his breath on the top of her head as she dug in under his chin, his scruffy stubble catching her hair and holding them together, and she reached her leg over his to pull him closer.

She was worn out, and he was worn out, and as much as she wanted him inside her, she was lulled by the deep breath in his chest, the slow thud-thump of his heart. She was asleep before she could thank him.

Later, much later she guessed, as the sun had set and darkness had returned to the room, she woke. She pulled away slightly, and saw that he was awake too.

She wanted to say something, but then she caught the longing, pained look writ large across his features. Keeping her eyes on his, she tipped her head up, and parted her lips. This time, he gave in, overcoming whatever had held him back before. His lips found hers, warm, alive.

She tasted him, his breath warm but clean, honest. His hand on her body, strong, but gentle, hesitant. He touched her all over, her neck, her shoulders, the scars of her arms, the pulse in her wrists, her cool fingers entwining with his. His mouth touched her nose, her cheekbones, her jaw, her hair. “He kissed my hair,” she thought, mesmerized.

There was something almost heroically restrained in how he touched her, his fingertips tracing down her stomach, through her little patch of hair. He separated her softly, touching her enticingly, so she opened to him more than he opened her. She was desperate, but he still moved slowly. She searched for the word. Something churchy, what was it? Reverent. He touched her, everywhere, reverently. He finally let her roll on top of him, her legs sliding over his hips.

“You are–” he began, but she put a kiss on his lips to stop him from talking.

“You,” she said. “You’re amazing. I’ve never been with anyone like you.” And she’d been at this so much longer than she cared to think about. Too long, too soon, but now, at last, right.

She felt him slide inside her. Just a start, teetering between diving in and being pushed out. He held her there, his gentle hands surprisingly strong on her hips. He moved her up and back, slowly, maddening. He was in control, with his strong hands, but she was on top, looking down, watching him watch her, watching him want her.

“I need you,” she said, surprised that it was true.

He smiled then, the first real smile, the first smile he had shared that reached his eyes, and loosed his grip on her hips. She slipped towards him then, and he was inside her, deep and full, and her eyes rolled back as she cried out. She opened her eyes again, shocked, and she panted out a few words.

“Going. Going to– Going–” And then it was on her, a real orgasm, from fucking a cock into her, from feeling his heartbeat from her insides, down below her navel. She collapsed on him, fighting for breath.

Then he began to move, under her, inside her, and she started to climb the mountain again, already. What romance-novel shit is this, she asked herself. Like a roller coaster climbing the hill, tick tock, adding energy and anticipation, higher, and higher, then Whee! All out with a scream and a whoosh and whipping around to the next turn. Tick tock. Up the next hill. “I’m going to die here,” she thought. She was resigned to it. It seemed worth it.

Finally he kissed her, softly, and said, “I’m not, I’m not using anything. I should stop, before…”

She grabbed his face in both hands, her hair in sweaty tendrils framing them both.

“Inside me,” she gasped. “I promise you- if you don’t come inside me, you bastard, I will never ever forgive you.”

He raised his eyebrows, then did that smile again, the small, shy smile, and his hands reached down, cupping the cheeks of her arse, and he began to bounce her, lifting and dropping her on him, jacking himself with her body, totally in possession. He was hers, and he was making her his.

She couldn’t say for certain if she came when he released inside her. Everything blurred together. But after a time, he was quiet, and soft inside her, and she could feel the heart beating in his proud flesh less and less. She rolled off of him, and they pulled apart just enough for her to come away from him. She put one hand to her soaking sex, and the other to his face. She closed her eyes to gather her senses, just for a moment, just to find the right thing to say.

Instead, she fell asleep, and slept until morning, holding him and being held, and did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La petite mort: (the little death) "the sensation of post orgasm, as likened to death."
> 
> I had intended that chapters predominately from Harry's point of view would be rather more objective and detached, while Rabbity's would be more explicit and realistic. That conceit seems to have flown out the window, but if I stop to revise now, I'll never progress with the plot. Yes, I hope that there is a plot, still left to be unwound. Especially if you are wondering about Harry's family, the Hallows mark, where Rabbity got a wand, where all the magic has gone, or who was watching Harry's family at the cottage in flashback.
> 
> All in good time. Again, I have yet to receive any comments on this work at all, so I don't really have any guidance here. Flying blind, so to speak. Please share your thoughts at your convenience, either good or bad. Thank you.


	10. Flashback- The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other." -Dickens
> 
> Harry and the Ministry plan to address an injustice.

The Ministry of Magic

Harry stood in the Wizengamot chamber, as he had too many times in the past, but at least this time he was there by his own choice.

“Auror Potter, could you share the findings of your team?” Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice boomed in the high-ceilinged chamber, quieting the mutterings of the Wizengamot members present.

“Yes, Minister.” Harry eyed several witches and wizards who had been pushing back against their inquiries, or questioning his work, before continuing.

“It appears that there can now be no doubt that the–” he paused, his mouth twitching into a one-sided smirk, “–the disruption of the Ministry during the war resulted in two unforeseen but related effects. First, a number of wizarding families, understandably reluctant to send their children to Hogwarts during the Troubles, kept a number of magically talented young people to be schooled informally at home, or sent aboard, or even neglected their training completely, due to families being dislocated, obliviated, or killed during the War itself.”

A chorus of generally affirmative and rather indignant harrumphing from the members made him pause. Harry continued after a moment, with the more surprising discovery of his team.

“Worse, due to the anti-Muggle, so-called Pureblood prejudices of many in the ministry and staff, most Muggle-born witches and wizards were never properly identified. No Hogwarts letters were sent. No arrangements were made for removal of these children from the Muggle world, and by the time things were set right, at least three years' of students had been ignored, and dozens now remain unaccounted for.”

“Thank you, Auror Potter,” Shacklebolt turned his attention to a parchment in his hands.

“There’s something else, Minister,” Harry interjected, drawing everyone’s attention. “There has been a rise in instances of wild magic, spontaneous and dangerous acts of magic by untrained witches and wizards. If we don’t find some way to identify these lost ones, we will continue to see increasingly serious and dangerous incidents like the Chobham fire and the Surbiton railway splinching.”

“And how do we address this issue, Auror Potter? I take it you have a suggestion?”

“A number of departments have been consulted, Minister. We believe a spell can be devised which will cause the lost ones to show a mark, something discrete so as not to alarm the populace. We believe that within the year, we can have the spell prepared, and begin a methodical search.”

Harry paused, and then spoke quickly, with passion he rarely showed in public.

“These children are ours. They are our family, our people. We cannot allow them to become scared of who they are, afraid of what they can do, without guidance or understanding. The wizarding world is not perfect, but it is their world, and their only hope, and we owe them a chance to be welcomed into it.”

In the end, it would take just over two years to complete the preparations for the spell. The Reveal, as it came to be known, was cast six months later. By that time, Harry Potter was no longer an auror, no longer an employee of the ministry, and he would play no part in the efforts to locate the Revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this explains the mark under Rabbity's arm. If you are wondering what happened with Harry's family, we're almost there.


	11. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief moment. Rabbity and H have odd pillow talk, during which Harry muses on the last time he was happy at Christmas. Also, what's a muggle boy?

“Where did you go?” She was nose to nose with him, and without his glasses, his eyes had drifted, focused on something faraway and long ago. She spoke softly, but there was a light and life in her voice that Harry had not heard before.

“Sorry, I was trying to recall, or more to imagine, the last time I let myself be happy. It’s been a long time.”

With her hands on his chest, she felt the scars here and there, the rough and the smooth. She peered at his forehead, noting the jagged lightning bolt, a pattern of thin white lines. She knew too much about scars.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said, a bit sadly. “Before.”

“Many times,” he admitted, “but lately, not so much. But there was a time. Then, there was a time I was hurt so badly, I couldn’t imagine being hurt more, because I couldn’t imagine being well enough again to ever not still be hurting. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

She held him, and his breathing was soft and warm, and he was quiet for so long, as she turned in towards him, and she wound up with her cheek against his chest, and his heartbeat in her ear. Suddenly, he spoke again.

“We came up for Christmas, that last year. I blame myself now, but to be honest, looking back, I don’t remember whose idea that was. The snow was falling, and there were carol singers in the village. It was magical, without magic. It was a muggle boy’s dream of magic.”

“A what?” she asked, her voice soft against his chest.

“Pardon?” He tried to look down at her, but she was so close, she was just a blur of dark hair and pale neck and shoulder.

“What’s a muggle boy?”

[resumed after a long hiatus, just to finish off the previously written section]  
  


“You’re kidding, right?” Harry looked down at the young woman in his arms. “I mean, once you were revealed, once you had your wand–”

He stopped, the look of confusion on her face matching his own.

‘But you,” he tried again, “You have the mark of the Hallows. You’re one of the Revealed.”

“Revealed what?” Her eyes were wide and luminous. He scrambled for his glasses and struggled to seat them, her face snapping into focus but her expression still clouded.

“You were never contacted by the ministry? Then how did you get your wand?”

“The baton, you mean? That’s what my auntie said it was. That stick she used when she lead the orchestra. My mum said it was her crazy stick, that she kept up her arse. The only reason I took it when I ran was that I knew it would bother my mum. She always hated her sister but she kept that stupid stick in her locked drawer.”

“Merlin’s bollocks,” Harry breathed to himself more than to her. He spoke more directly to her. “No one ever told you that you were a witch? But, how old are you, anyway?”

She pushed him away, and scrambled for her clothes. Her face clouded over.

“What is with you, H? I can’t suck you off, but you can fuck me and call me names after, is that it? Well if I’m a witch you’re a mean, crazy, scar-faced git, you bloody—whatsit—muggle?”

He tried not to laugh, but he did smile as he put his hand on her arm, carefully. He waited until she slowed, and looked at him, expectantly.

“You’re a witch, a magical person. And me, I’m a wizard, a boy witch. Muggles are non-magical people, what I thought I was until I was eleven years old, and what you thought you were until just now. And I can imagine that you are having trouble accepting this. That’s okay. I had the same trouble.”

“No,” she said slowly, “This actually explains some things. My auntie was one, too, a witch?”

“I assume. If she was, and your parents weren’t, you might not ever have known. Especially with the war.”

“The war?”

“We need some tea. Maybe something stronger. This story will take a while, and parts of it are pretty ugly. Parts are pretty unbelievable. There’s a bit where my parents and most of their friends die. There’s even a bit where I die, and that’s not the worst part. Anyway, tea.”

There are times when being British has its advantages, and this was one of those times. By the time he had dressed, to the extent of pulling on a pair of jeans, and she was wrapped in a quilt, the tea was ready.

“Where do I start?” He mused, staring into the fire. “The true beginning was long ago, before I was born at any rate. Let me tell you from my point of view, I think, and you can sort of discover things as I did. Once, there was a boy who lived…”

The day and the night went on. They drank tea, ate what they could find, and as the story went on, the questions became more complex, and the digressions more extensive. At the end, the food and fire were running low, and they had a limited time to find resupply before darkness came again. They considered getting dressed, and striking out towards the shops. Harry thought about leaving the house, but he couldn’t, couldn't make himself. Not yet. Not with her. He didn't know what to do.


End file.
